Cracked Porcelain Dolls
by Accidental-Ducky
Summary: It had been years since she watched her preschool burn to the ground, but she still couldn't bring herself to believe that it was really over. Sometimes she would drive across town and just sit in her car, staring at the ruins as though she were waiting for him to crawl out like a Phoenix reborn. Sometimes she wanted him to just so she knew she wasn't entirely crazy.


It had been years since she watched her preschool burn to the ground, all ashes and charred wood now, but she still couldn't bring herself to believe that it was really over. Sometimes, on the bad days, she would drive across town and just sit in her car, staring at the ruins as though she were waiting for _him_ to crawl out like a Phoenix reborn. Sometimes she wanted him to just so she knew she wasn't entirely crazy.

She wasn't, at least, she didn't think she was crazy. And even if she was, she had a damn good reason to be a complete nut case. She wouldn't be the only one either, Quentin and Kris sharing the experience that left them all damaged; cracked, stained porcelain dolls that had been shoved aside to make room for the shiny new ones.

Nancy didn't mind, she had never been fond of all the attention she'd gotten after the newspapers got ahold of the story. Not the _real_ story, but the one that had been molded after months of lying to their parents; a copycat that took Fred Krueger's crimes to heart and wanted to finish what the latter had started, wiping out so many teens before he'd been stopped.

But she knew what had happened, still had nightmares where she hadn't woken up in that basement bedroom and she'd been forced to watch Quentin and Kris die before a silver claw embedded itself in her chest. She woke up covered in sweat and tears, fighting anyone that was touching her because _it was him_. It was his fire-blackened hand clutching her hip tightly, his rancid breath blowing a lock of her own hair across her cheek.

 _Him, him, him!_

And it took her hours to convince herself that it wasn't his fingertips grazing her back or his leg thrown over hers. But she still fought, still broke through the cocoon of blankets and limbs to _breathe_. And the two people beside her didn't mind, they understood because they've done it, too.

By now, nightmares were almost routine, something to be dealt with once steaming mugs of tea were cupped in their hands and they had a tabletop to stare at instead of each other. They talked sometimes, about what they had gone through and survived, but the surviving seemed to be the worst part sometimes.

Sure, they had their ways of working through the trauma; Kris had her internship at some fashion magazine that allowed her to stay out of the house all day, Quentin had his swimming that kept him cold and far away from the memory of hot flames that burned them and singed their clothes, and Nancy had her art. She locked herself away for hours, drowning out every creak and groan of the house with her music, her eyes glazed over as she let her charcoal pencils glide over the blank canvas.

Other days, the days when it felt too close and too real again, they would all pile up in the couch, never talking yet always touching in some way, and they would watch a movie that had no villains or sad endings or bad things. They would clutch at each other in the middle of the night, all three of them in the same bed to keep some of the fear away, but it was still there. It choked her some days and she scratched at her throat to get some air, and she locked herself in the bathroom so they couldn't see her losing her mind.

They had their own panic induced fits, their own version of her scratching, and she always turned her head when it happened. She didn't want to see Quentin pulling at his dark blond hair until there were bald patches that he was forced to hide with his ever-present beanie, she didn't want to see Kris scrubbing viciously at her arms and face just to make sure she didn't have Dean's blood on her anymore, and they did the same when they heard her gasping and freaking out behind the closed bathroom door.

On good days, they were all able to leave their apartment together and just walk around Springwood. They didn't flinch at the sound of metal against metal or husky laughs of old men who had probably smoked one cigar too many, and they could enjoy the loud, indistinguishable hum of conversations in large groups of people in the mall.

Nancy lived for the good days, for when her chest wasn't so tight and she wasn't scared that she'd start screaming one day and never stop. They were the days when her touches were soft and loving, skin against skin, sweat-slicked and blazing hot as the breathy moans filled their apartment.

She was always sandwiched between her roommates, the one that needed to be protected the most because she had been his favorite and they knew that she needed to be held up sometimes. On the bad days, the days when there doesn't seem to be a single ray of bright sunshine to lead her out of the depressing dark, she just remembers that she has these two amazing human beings that have gone through the same things she has. And, when things get bad again, she just reminds herself that Kris and Quentin are still alive and by her side.

Nancy reminds herself that she isn't alone and that's enough for her.


End file.
